


Temple

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Throne Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beregond accidentally gets an eyeful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temple

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Arwen and Éowyn aren’t mentioned in this; you can headcanon whatever works best for you. I’m going with open communication and polyamory. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

At first, he’d been out of sight. He would never spy like this on purpose. He would have announced himself and made a hasty exit, if it weren’t for their entry paralyzing his tongue. He glanced over his shoulder, around the pillar that hid his body, to see his king and prince stride towards the throne. The book he’d forgotten early was already in his hands then, but when the king took his seat, Beregond’s knees became too weak to move. 

He stood, instead, beside the pillar in the throne room, hidden and silent, open-mouthed as his beloved prince shed helmet and cape and straddled Isildur’s heir. Beregond’s couldn’t get any words past his lips, couldn’t think. He watched, transfixed, as Aragorn fiddled with Faramir’s trousers, until Faramir rose up again on tentative thighs, and slunk back on with a ragged moan that echoed all down the throne room. 

They have every right to do this here, of course. This room, like all of Minas Tirith, all of Gondor itself, newly belongs to Aragorn. But perhaps they wouldn’t do so if they knew that one guard failed to hear the dismissal they must’ve given the others. It’s late, mostly lit with candles and moonlight. Aragorn sits high above in his white seat, and his lover moves eagerly in his lap. Beregond had no idea they were lovers. He’ll tell no one. But it’s plain from their noises and the way they touch one another that this isn’t their first time. Beregond’s in no position to see either of their faces, but he can see the sensual movement of their bodies. He can hear every lewd, wet sound, and the slapping of flesh and coarse fabric. He can see his king’s long fingers slipping into Faramir’s honey hair, and he can see Faramir tremble when Aragorn gives just a little tug. 

They’re both beautiful. Beregond’s always thought so of Faramir, who’s all soft features and gentle eyes and a warm smile, with a slender form and too-creamy skin. Faramir moves with grace, breathes with devotion. The way he wraps his arms around Aragorn shows such _adoration_ , and it makes Beregond think Aragorn the luckiest man in the world.

Aragorn is handsome, too. Beregond’s known him less, but he’s proven wise, faithful, strong. He has a good heart, and he deserves his rule. And he’s always treated Faramir well. Far better than the late Steward ever did. Now Beregond knows _why_.

They move in tandem, first slow, and then Aragorn’s hips are visibly bucking up, boots braced hard against the stone. Faramir bounces in his lap in a flurry of broken cries punctured with moans, debauched and breathtaking—they send shivers down Beregond’s spine. Beregond can’t look away. Faramir’s whole body writhes with his movement, arches and tosses back, hair catching in the moonlight from above, the rest painted in the flicker of fire. His beauty’s devastating. And finally, Aragorn tells him, murmurs hushed but ringing through the hall, “You are so wondrous like this, my prince. I do not know how I have waited so long.”

Faramir makes a chuckling sound, quickly shattered around a short cry at a particularly harsh thrust of Aragorn’s hips. Beregond has a fleeting thought of what that looks like, up close, between them—is Aragorn long, thick, veiled or cut as outlanders sometimes are? Beregond wonders if Faramir’s shaft is free or still trapped in his clothes. Neither of them is touching it, for Beregond can see where all their limbs are entwined. Faramir ducks forward, and Beregond’s sure they’re sharing a kiss. It stretches long, becomes loud and likely messy, and then Faramir breathlessly laughs: “It has barely been a day.”

“And I would have you a dozen times between each set of the sun if I could,” Aragorn returns, fond and humorous but growled deep, drenched in _sex_. Faramir merely moans in response, wrapping tighter around him. A dozen would be too much for any man, let alone a busy king, but Beregond understands the sentiment. If he could have Faramir’s body crushed against his, he’d never want to let it go, either. At the same time, if he could service his king, he would do so as often as he could.

He feels privileged, in a way, for seeing this, for _knowing_. But he feels guilty, too. And now it’s been too long. If he stirs, they’ll see him, and he’ll have to face that shame, that he lingered to watch. He tells himself it wouldn’t matter, because they must _know_. They’re rangers of different types. Nothing escapes them. Certainly not a man in full, glistening armour, standing just behind one trim pillar. He’s made no extra move to conceal himself. He wonders if he could retreat, back away and creep off without them ever knowing, but then he would miss _this_ , and he desperately wants to know what Faramir sounds like _when he comes_.

“I love you,” Faramir mutters suddenly, quiet but firm enough for it to carry. “I love you, Aragorn, my king, with everything I have, you are my everything—” His declaration dies off, muffled. Another kiss. Aragorn takes his mouth for some time, and when they seem to finish, Faramir is panting even greater, gasping for air, and Aragorn brushes back his hair, touches his face, pulls at his tunic to expose patches of his neck and shoulders to kiss. The smell of it’s beginning to reach Beregond. He knows he’s become hard but is trying valiantly to ignore it. 

So soft that Beregond must strain to hear, Aragorn purrs, “And I love you, my perfect prince, my Faramir.” His hands fall from Faramir’s face, tracing down Faramir’s sides, to grab his hips, then slam Faramir down so hard that Beregond fears he’ll break.

Instead, he _screams_. It ricochets through the hall like a shattered mountain, but filthy, and so very _hot_. Beregond’s fists tighten, nearly shaking, at his sides. Faramir’s cry is loud enough to stifle Aragorn’s, which swiftly follows, and the two of them become a squirming mess of hoarse gasps and wanton thrusts. When they’re finally finished, Faramir seems to slump, boneless, in Aragorn’s strong embrace.

And Beregond is still very much aroused and even more so ashamed. He’ll have to reveal himself now. It would only be right. This was wrong, and he must own it. Even if he wants to watch their afterglow, watch them cuddle and coo and pet one another, so sweet and _pure_ , like this city’s gone so long without. It seems to him now more than ever that his king and prince are everything that’s _good_ in this world, and their love is only right. 

Aragorn absently strokes through Faramir’s hair, while Faramir nuzzles into Aragorn’s shoulders, still lewdly stretched atop him. Now, with Faramir bent low, Beregond can see Aragorn’s face over it. All the years and weariness he often carries appear to have melted away, replaced, instead, with peace. Aragorn places a gentle kiss on Faramir’s head, then murmurs, “You are so, so _loved_.”

Though it’s meant for Faramir, it warms Beregond to the bone. Faramir has always needed to hear that, though he was always told otherwise. Worse when Boromir left. But no one better deserves Middle Earth’s greatest king. 

And then, lifting his gaze above Faramir, Aragorn calls, “And you, Beregond, are a lucky man to have seen that.”

Beregond seems to turn to stone. If he wasn’t paralyzed before, he is now. His eyes are so wide that he can feel them watering, while Aragorn’s are fixed directly on his, burning. Faramir looks tiredly around, blushes a faded pink across his cheeks, but doesn’t look too terribly surprised. Beregond was right, then, to think two Rangers would know him. 

But Faramir mumbles, “I forgot when we began...” which Beregond believes; he had a large distraction. 

Aragon just shakes his head and chuckles, “I confess the same, though I had assumed you would become immediately uncomfortable and make your leave—your are not on duty. If I had known you were inclined to watch, I would have arranged for better circumstances.”

Beregond, completely at a loss, tries to reply, but only lets out a garbled string of nonsense, that makes Aragorn’s smile quirk playfully. Sometimes, he becomes far too good-natured for this solemn hall. Beregond hadn’t meant to watch and didn’t know he had an inclination. He just couldn’t _not_ look at these two perfect men. He wants to promise he won’t tell a soul, but he can’t formulate the sentence right, and he’s sure they know. They trust him, even if they can’t afford to do so as completely as he trusts them. Finally, he dips his head in a courteous bow, for lack of anything else to answer with. 

Faramir, looking wholly embarrassed, turns back to Aragorn with a groan. Aragorn responds by rubbing a soothing circle on his back and announcing, “I hope you understand it would be better to discuss this at another time. I fear we are too spent to be of much use.”

Beregond blurts, “Yes, my king,” and then bows from the waist up, stiff as a tree. Aragorn nods back, and Beregond, somehow, manages to turn around. He nearly walks into the pillar but manages to evade it just in time. He’s halfway to the door when he realizes he’s still painfully hard. 

As soon as he’s outside, he bolts for his home, ignoring Irolas at the door, who asks innocently, “Are they finished yet?”


End file.
